Velocity Over Time
by dietpepsi
Summary: The rating's given in caution; it's a light R for some SnakeOtacon kinda-smut. Also includes windows, chopsticks, blush wine, and a Hot Asian Waitress.
1. Sensory Stimuli

**Velocity Over Time**  
**By:** Caz  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Chapter one: Sensory Stimuli.   
**Notes:** Writing this made me hungry. Seriously! And ha, Snake smokes cheap cigarettes. Anyway, it's really short for a first chapter but I liked it enough, so I decided to post. It's the first MGS fic I've posted, so rip me a new one if necessary. Was inspired by Lycia's "From Foam" and "Chalkboard James" by Allison's Halo. Great instrumentals; check 'em out. Okay, enough from me... oh, and anyone that understands the title gets a cookie. ;D And thank you to Em (kinneas) for the encouragement of my odd habits. And fanfiction.net feels the need to BUTCHER my formatting… let's try uploading this again…  


_Hello Darkness, my old friend…_

The Robert Frost line pervaded his mind without his permission as Hal Emmerich gazed out over the crystal-clear Manhattan skyline, green eyes reflecting light of a thousand headlights and streetlamps. He sat upon the window's sill, using its frame as a guide for his position… the effect it would've given to an observer was that the cold architecture of the tenement was somehow cradling him.

His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose again, but he possessed neither the drive nor the energy to bother returning them to their rightful perch. Instead, he rather enjoyed the blur of nighttime silhouette as it contrasted the sharpness of the apartment's interior.

The majority of feeling left in his tired consciousness was lackluster, doleful. But it wasn't due to depression; no, not anymore. Truth be told, he was simply… worn. Stretched too thin for his frail mental resources to possibly cover. Arsenal Gear had been effectively decommissioned; Solidus was dead. Although his name hadn't been cleared and all of his questions hadn't been answered, the mission was largely a success.

He was drained.

It had all happened so fast… he'd had hardly any time to rest throughout the events of the last few months, let alone any time to reflect. Since early May, he'd known that the Patriots would look for them, especially for Snake... but they'd somehow avoided detection. They'd moved twice since then, each time downgrading (although he wasn't sure exactly how you could downgrade from a one-bedroom, one-bathroom flat that was surreptitiously missing a large chunk of the main hallway's sheet rock), and they'd had to live entirely off the grid. No telephone, no bank account, no taxes, no more trysts with the United Nations. Perhaps their constant risk of being detected was the source of the feelings of oppression that had locked around him in so tight a bubble. He didn't even know.

Ever since he'd realized—_it had felt like the moment a bullet penetrated the skin; a single instant where your eyes opened wide and you took in a single, short gasp before your skin turned to pins and needles_—that it was, in fact, over… he'd felt detached from reality. And walking the world as though it was a dream wasn't something he enjoyed. He wanted to actually be able to _feel_ the wall as he put his hand against it rather than think, distantly, "Hey… this wall has a texture."

But he knew there wasn't any way to speed up the process. He was stunned… and the only cure for that was time. Yet every time he convinced himself of that, he was reminded: _You've had time. It's been six months! In case you haven't forgotten, that's half a year. How much time do you need_?

As for Philanthropy's second member… he seemed to be doing fine. In fact, it was rather odd, the differences between "Snake" and "David." As soon as the danger was over, the man just switched personas. Not that Hal minded… in fact, it was rather comforting to know that there even _was_ another side to the laconic, hostile Solid Snake. But the two halves' differences were startling, nonetheless. Snake could move through any crowd, unseen and unheard… David's footfalls were lazy and heavy; you could tell he was home just by listening for the sound of rummaging. Snake was the epitome of strict when it came to his conduct or anyone else's; David chuckled all the time and tripped over loose items. A lot.

That thought, if nothing else, brought a smile to Hal's lips.

It was that tendency toward clumsiness that led him to be surprised when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, causing him to yelp a bit and whirl around. _I guess he can still pull a stealth move every once in a while, after all... _he thought as he sighed, relieved.

Snake—_no, _his brain reminded him, _Dave_—stood before him with a rather perplexed expression that didn't match his slouching posture. The ex-mercenary slumped into a nearby armchair and gazed up at the engineer as he spoke:

"Is it really _that_ interesting?"

It? Hal blinked, not understanding.

"The city. You've been sitting there, staring at it for hours. I've only walked by you twice in that time... but you don't seem to have moved at all."

It was an honest observation. The bespectacled man shrugged at the accusation, not having any fuel or reason to deny it. Instead, he offered an explanation.

"I've just been thinking. Sorry I've been so... distant. You probably don't even remember what it's like to have to unwind... but I'm just," he sighed, "I'm stressed. Or... I was. Either way..."

His companion nodded sympathetically, though he wasn't exactly vocal on the subject. That was another part of "coming down," or re-conditioning yourself to normal life after combat or even the survival of a horrific event: learning to speak again. On the battlefield, words were clipped and truncated so that they offered as little distraction as possible. Codes and jargon were everywhere... after prolonged exposure, Hal guessed, one would probably forget any sort of colloquial manner of speaking entirely. And then they'd have to learn normal inflection... to lose that tone of warlike urgency...

"You home?"

Hal glanced up, not realizing that he'd effectively buried himself in his own over-analysis once again.

"Yeah. Just..." he thought for a moment, "sorry. Forgot what I was going to say."

David nodded, knowing too well what that felt like. It was rather common between the two of them and their sometimes-faulty trains of thought. _We must really be getting old..._ he thought.

"Anyway... I'm gonna go pick up some Chinese from down the street. Just checking to see if you wanted anything." Dave felt like adding a comment about the fact that he hadn't seen Hal sit down to eat a full meal since that April, but declined it. For some reason, Hal's physical health was a rather touchy subject. Especially when it came to "not taking care of himself," which the scientist used as an opportunity to snap back at him about all of his own bad habits, smoking and drinking being the two most obvious. Then there would be a debate about whether he ate too much fried food, whether or not his cholesterol was higher than the Chrysler Building...

It was best to just let that subject slip by.

"No, I'm okay. Thanks, though."

The reply was exactly what he'd expected, not even the slightest bit shocking. But due to the tact that he so infrequently equipped, he felt it was good to ask just the same. As he turned to leave, he heard the sound of rustling clothing followed by a light _thud_ as Hal hit the hardwood floor and approached him from behind.

"You know, on second thought... I'll come with you. I've been cooped up for far too long... maybe the best thing to do to walk this off, so to speak, is to take it head on."

He smiled, genuinely hopeful, and Dave smirked in response. That line wouldn't have been possible a few years ago... not with the scatterbrained, hapless, nervous man he'd been introduced to on Shadow Moses Island. He'd really grown a lot since then. For the better. Then again... they both had.

After a moment had been reserved for them to gather the necessities—wallets, coats, and (although it as protested) a pack of Pall Malls—they marched down the stairwell and out into the New York night, with hungry stomachs and triumphant grins.

Already, Hal felt the dense, indescribable fog lifting from his shoulders as they walked side-by-side toward Little Orient, the Chinese bistro that occupied a corner a few blocks down from their humble home. He felt like he hadn't seen the world in years... every light that flickered from right before his eyes to far-off in the distance caught his attention. He felt like a child walking through a park to look at Christmas lights, tightly gripping the hand of a parent or grandparent as he took in the sights like only the most sense-ravenous individuals could. The street smelled wonderful; a dozen tiny restaurants lined it as far down as he could see, next to small antique shops or photo labs or pet grooming services or what-have-you. And not only that, but the temperature was just right... slightly cool, due to the fact that it was autumn, but nothing he couldn't bear. And the wind that blew, rather than chilling him, was invigorating.

"Wow... it's beautiful out here," he said in an awed, childlike voice.

There wasn't any reply from the one walking beside him, only a glance and a small, unreadable smile. Hal continued rambling on, commenting on the fact that he just swore the air was cleaner than it had been in months and how he just _couldn't believe_ that it was this close to Christmas and that this time, he was actually excited for the holidays rather than dreary and bothersome like he usually was...

"What?" he asked abruptly, hands on his hips, "why are you just _staring_ like that?"

Dave didn't reply, instead choosing to shove his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his jacket and quicken his pace toward their destination. This only perturbed Hal further; like any other sensible individual would, he pursued the matter further, peering inquisitively at the other man with a disgruntled expression. The action, of course, only brought forth rumbling laughter from his companion, who shook his head. His eyes held a devilish twinkle in the corner: the satisfaction of "I-know-something-you-don't-know."

"I really would like some answers here," he said, exasperated. He was interrupted.

"It's nothing in particular. You're just... you're smiling. I can't remember the last time I saw you smile. It's cute."

Although he tried to prevent it, a light blush crept into Hal's cheeks at the statement. Cute!? Of all the most emasculating adjectives in the English language... and before he could react, the taller man had leaned forward and pressed the tiniest of kisses to his cheek. The pinkish hue of his face deepened to a decidedly apple red. He opened his mouth to say something, though he hadn't yet thought of what, but David was hurrying onward, grinning and calling over his shoulder:

"Come on! I'm starving!"

And he had no choice but to hurry after, bewildered.


	2. Odd Eating Habits

**Velocity Over Time**   
**By:** Caz   
**Rating:** PG   
**Summary:** Chapter two: Odd Eating Habits.  
**Notes:** Is it normal that this fic (which is turning out so fluffy) was inspired by Swedish death metal? And... yeah, wow. People still have me on Author Alert from back in 2001… HI FRIENDS. The next chapter will get pretty slashy, methinks. Just for a heads-up for those of you who don't like their smoothies with citrus. Again, more format fixing… feh.  


The Little Orient restaurant was comprised of two halves: an indoor buffet or a more private, outdoor bistro surrounded by a bamboo garden. It was of little difficulty to guess which option the two would select, due to the night's balmy perfection and the unique experience of Hal's proverbial, sensory bubble-bursting. They were seated at a table in the garden's most southeastern corner, giving them a great view of the courtyard's centerpiece: a bubbling fountain that consisted of six marble spheres, each meticulously carved and balanced for an effect that was uniquely Zen. The sound of the water was somehow louder than the chatter of the other guests around them.

"Wow," Hal said, gazing around them like he'd stepped into a foreign jungle. His eyes than tilted skyward, prowling the night in search of the stars that drifted between thin slices of cloud. "It's absolutely _beautiful_ out here!"

At that moment, he'd completely forgotten the strange incident from a few minutes beforehand. He'd resigned himself to interrogate David about it as soon as the opportunity arose, but he found now that he didn't honestly care. It was far too nice of a night and he was in far too nice of a mood to allow it to be trivialized by something like an out-of-character action.

After they'd ordered, the waitress--and _damn_, what a waitress--returned with their soup and egg rolls. Hal realized that he hadn't ordered... hadn't even noticed that the opportunity had come and gone.

"Ehm... what am I getting?" he asked, confused.

"Don't worry," Dave said with a wink, "I just got what you always get. General Tso's with sticky rice and hot-and-sour soup, right?"

He nodded.

"I don't know about their drink menu... I couldn't pronounce anything on it, so I just got green tea and mineral water."

There was a split-second of bizarre silence before Hal erupted into laughter, eyes like little crescents behind the lenses of his glasses.

"'Green tea and mineral water'? You sound like a yuppie!"

The only reply that nugget of humor could glean from his companion was a dissatisfied grunt. Kids in SUVs, driving around with designer shades and paying for their three-dollar espresso with a twenty… people like that were the type that David found himself bothered by on a level that he couldn't explain. Perhaps it was because they had everything that he'd never had when he was young: financial support, free reign, exciting location… he honestly didn't know. _Aside from all that "shadowy past" bullshit, they drive like retards, _he thought. That settled the issue. Before he had time to think up a decent comeback to Hal's insult, their food had arrived.

The waitress set their tray down onto a nearby table, then loaded the courses individually to ensure that they wouldn't spill. The whole time, Hal was chatting her up like they were the best of friends, thanks to his newly-rediscovered social skills. Though that hadn't been the case when they'd first met, the scientist was actually quite the converser. In fact, Dave thought as he eyed them, she seemed rather charmed. _Must be that whole kicked-puppy thing,_ he added silently. Finally, the waitress—he'd learned that she was Tomoyo Funibashi, age twenty-four, loved cats, and was saving up for a motorboat—wandered off to another table, giggling girlishly, and they set into their food like vultures into a fresh kill.

"This has to be the best soup I've _ever_ had," Hal was saying, just the tips of his eyes visible above the bowl and large spoon. His table manners were rather peculiar: rather than leaving the bowl on the table whilst he ate and leaning over it, he lifted it to about shoulder-level and ate very neatly. It wasn't messy or improper by any means, just unusual. And when he'd finished enough of the soup, he simply tipped the bowl and sipped the rest without so much as a sound. Perhaps it came from years of eating over a keyboard… after all, spilling something like soup on one's expensive machinery wouldn't be good… but the quirk was left without discussion between the two of them; the food was far more important.

"Spicier than usual," the bespectacled man observed, bringing a thin sliver of the garnished chicken to his lips, twirling his chopsticks expertly. His companion, on the other hand, was having a bit of a more difficult time trying to master the Oriental eating utensils. He was finding that, rather than Hal's digits--which tapered elegantly and were made dexterous by years of typing--his fingers were just not nimble enough. He grumbled and simply speared a piece of the dark-orange chicken, then nibbled on it uncomfortably. A chuckle from across the table signaled that his odd posture had been discovered.

"Having trouble?"

He growled a bit in the back of his throat, then gave in and nodded.

"Well, for starters, you're holding them entirely wrong," he stared, confused, as Hal grabbed his hand and pried the chopsticks from his grip. He then flattened David's fingers, pointing to his thumb. "You don't balance them _on_ your thumb. If you do that, you'll lose your handle on the bottom one." He then tentatively folded the hand he held between his and curled over the thick fingers, shaping them painstakingly and sliding one of the chopsticks into place.

"You have to lean it against the inside of your index finger and rest the end of it on top of your little finger. Like this." He gestured to the way the chopstick now rested. "And rather than grabbing the other one the way you were, just slightly alter your grip. About an inch above the bottom one, rest it against the inside of your index finger. Then let your index and middle fingers curl around the top so you can move it like a hinge," He slid the second chopstick into place, then moved them together and then apart with a tiny grin. "See?"

Dave blinked, and then moved the sticks back and forth on his own. While the grip felt awkward at first, a few minutes later he found that he was learning.

"How have you been alive this long and visited the places you have without ever learning how to use chopsticks?" Hal queried, finishing the last of the sticky rice.

"Chopsticks, spoon, fork… Most of the time, I just eat with my hands." Dave explained. "It's not like I ever have steak and potatoes, after all. I'm either at home and living on take-out or in the field, eating freeze-dried MREs."

"That's fine with finger-food," Hal interrupted, "But even _you_ have to eat at nice places every once in a while, right?"

"Nope. _All food_ is finger-food." He shrugged.

"Eww," Hal said distastefully, "that's disgusting."

Half an hour later, they stumbled through the apartment's door like a couple of drunks—though neither had actually imbibed. They were drunk on the night, and therefore not accountable for any of the bizarre actions that had taken place to and from the restaurant. For starters, they'd grossly overtipped the dear waitress: sixteen dollars for a thirty dollar meal? But the math seemed right to them. Then, on the way back, they'd decided to purchase some wine from a street vendor, though they were obviously too giddy to be improved by drinking of any sort. Dave felt as though he'd let his guard down and was acting entirely out of character… but in all honesty, he didn't mind that. He was having fun, even if it was of the "stupid college student" variety.

"That dinner was _fantastic_," Hal said as he sank onto the rarely-used sofa, returning to his old pastime of staring out at the city that had welcomed them with open arms that night. Now, the lights were dimmer; more of the bustling crowd had retired for the night and more still were on the way. And the moon loomed up above them all like some sort of benevolent shepherd, assuring that all of Manhattan's wandering lambs would make it safely home.

As opposed to the almost dismal feeling it had recalled from within him earlier, the view of the city now evoked a feeling of life. Of being. He felt now that he was a part of the whole, not fenced off from humanity by experiences that were out of his control.

"You sure are consistent," remarked a gravelly voice from behind him, followed by the pop of a cork. Hal grabbed the glass as it was offered, holding it with perfect balance and delicacy, pinky out. He sipped the pinkish-red liquid tentatively, trying to remember when exactly the last time he'd tasted it was… and he couldn't. The alcohol was light—a blush wine, perfect for after dinner. It was fruity, yet beneath it there was an underlying bitterness. But rather than ruining the taste, it simply added a rather crisp edge.

"Pretty good for nine bucks a bottle, eh?" his partner remarked, flopping down onto the couch with little to no regard for personal space. Then again, that's how David, as opposed to Snake, always was: sharing furniture and food weren't his strong points. Living a comfortless life of necessity could do that to a person.

"I wonder," Hal said in a soft voice, eyes traveling up the floors of a far-off skyscraper, "how many of those people out there are only alive today because of us."

The statement—or was it a question disguised as a statement?—came from nowhere. He'd simply thought aloud, but now that he thought about what he'd said, it was a rather heavy subject. Even during the early days of Philanthropy, they rarely discussed past events. And when they did, the questions weren't rhetorical and phased in Hal's offbeat, ideological perspective. The engineer himself had admitted that he was far too much of a humanitarian to ever give an accurate, unbiased view of anything they'd accomplished. Or failed to accomplish.

"Does it really matter? None of them know it, after all,"

"It was just a thought," he murmured, "I mean… looking back on these last few months… I'm glad we prevented that attack and all, but you can't help but feel a little hopeless. No matter how long we keep on fighting, there's always going to be some rogue government or crazy bastard out there that's got the money and technology to threaten us all over again. It's like… even when things are relatively calm, there's no peace. There's just anticipating the next threat and how to get rid of them. And with the Patriots looming over us like some kind of death sentence…"

"Hey, cut it out! You were all cheered up a few minutes ago, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah…" he offered a rather pathetic smile as expiation for his broach of the 'rules.' But despite his good spirits, he felt his train of thought wandering as he laid back against the arm of the couch.


	3. Odd Dating Habits

**Velocity Over Time**   
**By:** Caz [missingmywings at msn dot com]   
**Rating:** A light R, I guess.   
**Summary:** Chapter three: Odd Dating Habits   
**Notes:** Ehm… this chapter kind of flirts with smut, but I really didn't want this fic to lose its cuteness, so I didn't let it get too graphic. People to thank over the course of this: Emily, Court, Erin, Melissa. And anyone else who helped me in ways I'm not sure of. 

Disjointed. Illogical. His thoughts had wandered over more subjects in the last few minutes than in the rest of the night combined… and he didn't know why. But he found that every other subject that came to mind reminded him of something else, of someone else, or of some place he'd been and never returned to. The couch—grey mohair, purchased at the Salvation Army—felt like the thick, wooly material of the bedspreads at his father's old hunting cabin in Derbyshire… the sweet-sour taste of the wine on his tongue was reminiscent of New Year's galas he'd never meant to attend… the salient moon reminded him of werewolf films… and—

"Why did you do that?" he said, finally remembering the subject he'd meant to discuss the entire time.

"You know, you lose yourself in thought far too often," his compatriot said at the same instant. The statement was followed by an inquisitive, "hm?"

"You know what I'm talking about!" Hal retorted. "On the way to the restaurant. You kissed me. Why?"

David shrugged, reading the label of the wine bottle distractedly. The question, considering the emotional symptoms it was giving to the one who'd posed it, didn't seem to affect him much. "I don't know… do you always have a rationalization for every decision you make all the time? It's not like it was your first kiss or anything."

The perturbed Doctor rolled his eyes and stared, aghast. "Well, I don't know where you got your information, but I don't just run around kissing random men! It wasn't my first kiss, but it was my first with—with a guy! With _you_! I mean… don't tell me you're like that with every chick you chase after. There's things like... like flirting and dates and cohabitation before the _spontaneous make-out session_!"

Slouching against the couch in quintessential "who-gives-a-shit" posture, David plucked a cigarette from the pack he'd shoved into his pocket and let it hang from his lips, fumbling for his lighter. When he was unable to find it, he glanced up to find that he was being stared at rather stubbornly. "What?"

"Well?" Hal said. "Explanation, please?"

He shrugged again, mirroring the same expression from before as his eyes still remained down and his hands still searched the many folds and pockets of his coat and shirt for the Zippo.

"I don't know. Like I said: I just did it! I didn't sit there and analyze it. And as for dating? I took you to dinner, we're already friends, and we already live together! What flirting, what date, what cohabitation? Look, if you hated it or were embarrassed or whatever, I'm sorry… but I just run on impulse sometimes. I don't know why it happened. Don't you tell me you've never just done some random, unprompted thing…"

"I haven't! Unlike you, I always think before I speak. And…"

There was a long silence, followed by a measured sigh. He was theorizing on how exactly he could have known Otacon for so long and still be amazed as new layers of his naïveté were revealed. _Never once given in to impulse? Come on…_ when he next looked up, Hal was staring at him with a strange, unformed expression. Behind his glasses, Hal's eyes then traveled to the floor as he spoke next.

"And… I never said that I didn't like it," he admitted, voice subdued. Suddenly, and in one fluid motion, he had plucked the cigarette from Dave's mouth, tossed it over his shoulder, and leaned forward, pressing their lips together in a temperate kiss. Neither of them could accurately gauge how long it lasted… one was too busy trying to shut off the mental alarms—_do you realize what _you_ just initiated?!_—and focus on the sensation; the other was simply letting himself fall under because analyzing actions and then second-guessing them simply wasn't something he tended to do. Oddly enough, the kiss remained chaste 'til the very end, when they separated with but an infinitesimal distance between them, neither sure when to open their eyes or make another movement.

"Was that impulsive enough for you?" the engineer said, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a devilish smirk.

The odd fact was that nothing between them felt changed; there was no fear of broken bonds, no turning away and rushing toward another room; there was just a brief moment of "what-the-fuck-am-I-doing" and there would be no discussing it, even, because things between them were that simple. Once he looked back on it, Hal would think that their relationship was easier than he'd ever had it with any woman: women needed confirmation, emotional support… women got jealous. Women wanted to know how they looked in a certain outfit; Snake nor David would ever ask him anything like that. Or even anything about whether or not they wanted to take it to the "next level." A week's worth of discussion and questions and answers passed between them in a nanosecond, like neurotransmissions through a synapse, with instant understanding.

And, aside from all of that, the point was this: both had been stressed and, to lose all delicacy whatsoever, more than a little lonely. Hal was just glad that he was finally kissing _someone_. It didn't matter that the tongue currently wrestling with his own happened to belong to a man.

After breaking apart once more, there was no hesitation. They leapt immediately into the kind of foreplay that caused teenagers to be forcefully removed from public areas. With David, he was finding, there were no clearly defined rules or boundaries. Thus, it became somewhat of a competition between the two of them, each trying to outwit the other. However, he was finding that he was losing, due to the creativity of the other. But it was so that when he found himself on his back upon the couch, being straddled as though he were the textbook bitch of the relationship, he really didn't mind.

            Claimed by another kiss, he focused on the taste—leftover Szechwan with nicotine—and gasped as he felt a sudden, sharp, yet not entirely unpleasant pain.

            "Biting me on the neck, huh? What are you, some kind of vampire?"

He countered with a fierce bite of his own_—there would be marks in the morning_—and then trailed kisses across Dave's stubble-spotted jaw line, smirking as he elicited a rumbling moan in the other man's throat. He was then thrown roughly onto his back, shirt yanked up around his shoulders and finally pulled off entirely. Then it was an entirely new ballgame: each new brush of skin to skin set him on fire. Before he knew it—_is the world really moving in slow motion? Jesus Christ_—he was pulling them closely together, panting and demanding. It was different than with a woman, he thought as his dazed brain floated out into the proverbial ether. The hands upon his skin were rougher; the body above his own was hard and rigid, decidedly lacking feminine curves. Blood rushed hot and quick through the capillaries of his fingertips, which ere all too eager to assist in the removal of the last thin items of clothing separating them.

Before he knew it, nails were digging into his skin and tears were forming in his eyes as he screamed the name of the one who'd carried him to heaven. He didn't care who heard.

A while later—too distracted to bother looking at a clock—they were seated at a familiar place, staring out at a very familiar little slice of sky and city. Only this time, they occupied the windowpane together. And this time, the architecture that cupped them to its stone-and-mortar breast seemed somehow more warm than cold. The remnants of the wine had been poured into slightly-overfilled glasses; they sipped it thoughtfully as the cascade of lights before them slowly trickled down to few. The city wasn't dead, Hal realized, nor was it even dying. It had simply gone to sleep for a while.

"If I had a nickel for every time this window caused you to ignore my presence entirely…"

They shared a bit of a laugh, probably more due to the alcohol than to the line's relevance or humor. It didn't matter either way.

"I hate them—the people out there—because of the fact that they don't even know how much they owe us," Hal said. A long moment passed before he continued, finally collecting his thoughts: "but… now that I really think about it… does that even matter? No matter how many rogue governments or crazy bastards are out there, the best we can do is fight until we can't anymore. Whether we save them or they save themselves, life will just keep moving forward."

"Profound words from a man as drunk as you are," David commented, smirking. "But you're right," he added as he wrapped his arms around the slimmer man's shoulders, and pressing his cheek to Hal's neck. Smooth, strong, his heart kept on beating.

"I don't understand, though, why I suddenly feel this way. Maybe it's the wine—"

"—or the sex—"

"_—hey_! Anyway, what I was saying before you took your perverted liberty… is that everything just kind of feels different now. Like maybe, in spite of it all, we just might make it."

He laughed and took one of Hal's hands between his own, splaying the fingers flat and running his thumb along the delicate topography of his open palm. It was every bit as romantic of a gesture as it had been before; only this time, there were no chopsticks.

"Yeah, I know what that feeling is," he said offhandedly.

"Oh? Enlighten me."

He held their hands together, comparing the size and shape with an ironic smile. Soft to callused, fragile to firm, pale to tan… yet despite their differences, they complimented each other perfectly.

"Where I'm from, we just call that 'hope.'"

/Fin.


End file.
